Using thepromptfoundry’s Ominous October list.
This one is Malevolent fanfic, although only barely. Filthy shameless omegaverse Carcosa AU smut.
CWs: AU, id fic, omegaverse, monsterfucking, godfucking, explicit sex, breeding kink (but not human babies), tentacles, double penetration, clothed sex, chastity belts, OOC, rough draft
***
Arthur has been in heat ever since he was presented to the King in Yellow. It had begun to hit him even as he’d stood in the center of the throne room, with his sire and retainers flanking him.
The King’s presence had been so powerful. Everyone who looks upon the King in Yellow is maddened by desire, they say, and for Arthur it was true. He had felt the unbounded inspiration flowing from that great figure, the drowning possibilities that had swarmed from that godly flesh. Music had seeped through his ears and mouth and nose to colonize his mind, its perfection a choking mass in his throat that he’d swallowed and swallowed, trying to take it into himself. His eyes had played tricks of perspective on him, the distances receding and the King seeming to grow closer and closer in his view until He had felt close enough to reach out and touch, the crushing weight of His regard filling Arthur’s eyes. The god of dreams had burned as close and hot as a jungle, as consuming as an alpha’s grip.
A hot, trembling sweaty flush had erupted through him at the seething passion of it, with the first needy, cramping throbs and beginning of heat-slick between his legs. He’d been insensible of the interview or the words his sire had exchanged with the King. When it was over, it had been all he could do to stand straight and walk steadily out with his head held high.
His sire has kept him in a chastity belt ever since, to protect him from the well-known lusts of the Carcosans.
The belt is torment. It has a ball that fits into his ass, a little swollen nub inside him that teases him constantly with the most barely acceptable hint of a knot. And he can’t touch himself. The memory of the King seethes within him still, leaving him tossing and writhing in his sheets as he dreams. When he wakes, feverish with the god’s hunger, all he can think of is sating it. He teases and pinches his erect pink nipples on his heat-swollen breasts, grinds his hips against a pillow, his clit stimulated against the chastity belt and the small plug rocking and tugging at his ass. But no number of non-penetrative orgasms can sate an omega in heat, and he’s left sweaty and desperate by his own climaxes.
But he doesn’t try to escape. He lets his sire keep him safe within the cloistered courtyards of the omega’s harem, even if he thinks he might go mad before his heat ends. Like this, he can wear only the most gossamer clothing, his skin too sensitive for more. When he rises from his bed to eat or drink or bathe, he pads through the halls all but naked, in nothing but a transparent silken drape clasped around his waist, and wafting a scent that would incite even the most stolid beta to push him to the floor and mount him.
The denizens of Carcosa are infamous for their perversions. What they might do to an omega made yielding with heat makes his stomach twist with lust and terror.
He’s making for the private baths of the inner court, when the Lord of Carcosa Himself sweeps across the hall in front of him.
Arthur stops in his tracks.
Just looking at Him, Arthur feels the fever returning to his skin and his mind. Unspeakably perfect music blooms again inside him, and somehow it feels exactly the same as the welling slick from his tortuously empty womb. A panicked though passes through him that the music fills him there too, surging into that vacancy within him.
Maybe the King won’t notice him, he manages to think with a sane part of his mind. He’s just a small mortal thing to a living deity. He edges toward the wall, to take shelter behind a tall ornamental plant.
But the King does not progress. It’s difficult to tell where He’s looking, His face hidden in the shadows of the mantle that drapes His head and shoulders like a glorious, dripping crown. But instead of progressing in the direction He came, He turns toward Arthur’s direction.
The music peaks, and Arthur twitches with a whimper at the sensation of it spearing his womb and mind together when the King in Yellow stops before him.
He’s regarding Arthur. Arthur can’t see His face, but that attention is physical, traveling over his exposed body. Under its demanding caress—the imperious insistence of a king—he becomes dreadfully aware of his rounded, bare breasts, peaked nipples pressing out against the sheer fabric. His softly rounded belly, trim waist and slim, curved hips, swaying with desire he can’t stop. His naked thighs, wet and gleaming with slick in the terrible starlit radiance that illuminates the King’s presence, and the straps of the chastity belt that lock him away.
One hand, huge and spidery with six fingers and too many knuckles, reaches out to grasp his face. Its grace fascinates him. He can’t think to move until it takes hold of his chin, and then his gasps at the touch of a god shudders in his chest. A clawed thumb strokes over his flushed cheekbone and he can feel the crystalline music and distant starlight that across his skin in its wake.
“Arthur.”
When the King says his name, he can’t stop his head from lolling back or his mouth falling open. His knees would buckle then, if they could, to spill him onto the ground with his ass in the air, presented and ready for the taking.
But the King takes his waist in His other hand, preventing that. Arthur makes a little noise in his throat at the realization those long fingers wrap more than halfway around him. One long finger slips downward and grazes over the curve of his ass. He loses track of the touch, where it leaves his skin to stroke over the chastity belt, but his back arches a little, pushing his rear into the touch. The King’s thumb stretches upward over the under-curve of his breast to his nipple, where He teases it with the bony pad of His thumb and the point of His claw.
Arthur wriggles and moans to the pricking touch. “Please,” he pants, and pushes his chest forward.
Humiliating. Naked before this great beast, reduced to this mewling pathetic thing beneath a god’s touch. He feels so vulnerable, so alluring.
His mouth, though, is controlled by the music filling his head. “Please, let me submit to you.”
From the folds of the King’s robes, slithering golden tendrils emerge.
Arthur flinches away automatically at the sight, jerking in the King’s firm grip, but the King’s voice captures his attention away from them. “I can hear the music taking root inside you,” says that deep, rich voice that sounds like the echos of many voices. “I knew you were meant as a vessel for me, when I first saw you in court. I’ve been waiting for you to come to me, Arthur. But you’ve resisted.”
His entire body yearns forward at that voice. That demand. To come to the King—! The music thrusts again up into his womb, and he jerks, arching, with a grunt.
The King’s thumb-claws pierce his nipples. The pain sings through him. He cries out in response with a beautiful note.
The golden tentacles snake up his legs, beneath the gossamer veil, and silther in beneath the chastity belt. “Yesssss,” he moans, his hips jutting forward as he feels one lick at the shielded sensitized slip of him. Then his eyes fly open. “No—!”
He hears a click and a clattering, and the clasp of the chastity belt around his hips loosens. The King pulls it away, the plug tugging at his ass as it’s pulled out.
“You are ready for me, Arthur,” He says. And Arthur finds himself lifted off his feet, those hands wrapping beneath his thighs so that he’s sitting in their palms, fingers wrapped around his legs to hold them spread wide.
He’s exposed. He can feel the cool air on the wet lips of his cunt. It tingles on them, and they throb, and his slick drips into the King’s palms.
The tendrils that teased at his opening move on. He can’t tell if he’s relieved or upset. Instead they follow his body upward, slipping beneath under sheer drape and coiling around and around his breasts, squeezing. This close, he sees for the first time that their ends have tiny maws. He watches them open, and they’re lined with little pinprick teeth, like leeches.
“Nn-no!” He wriggles in the King’s hands, legs tugging at the King’s secure grip as the tentacles rear back to strike at his nipples. “Hnn-NN!” They bite down and he cries out at the searing pain on the sensitive flesh—another beautiful, musical note, can’t he scream anymore? Has that been taken away from him?
He tugs at them with his hands, making the teeth pull at his nipples, and the pain extends. Against his will, he feels dominated by that pain. his body arches forward eagerly into it, cunt fluttering, knowing itself to be held fast in a mate’s grip, at His mercy to be taken and possessed.
From the King’s robes again emerges a thicker tentacle. This one has something that looks like a thickly-bushed bottle brush at its end, perhaps ten inches long. It sets itself to his vagina and pushes in.
He sings a long, loud note, and then another, a rising phrase of music as the King’s bottle brush cock penetrates him. The hairs drag in and out of his hole, drag along his inner walls as it pushes in and pulls back out, over and over. He feels another press at him from behind, against his asshole, and he has nowhere to go to escape it. Struggling only pushes him harder upon the one taking his cunt as he’s entered from behind. “It’s thick!” he cries. “So thick! Please—!” He stretches and bends at the waist, lower body unable to move, flexing beautifully in the King’s grip.
He can feel the King’s admiration of his lush, fecund beauty as He watches Arthur struggle. Watches the music take root in him and begin to spread through his veins.
They thrust, and thrust, in and out, sending sizzling choruses of pleasure beyond his ability to cope with up through his body, into his womb, up further until he feels them fucking into the base of his brain. His breasts are sore from being squeezed and kneaded, nipples bitten and pinched. Under the stinging, suckling ministrations of the King’s tentacles, he can feel them beginning to fill, stimulated to milk. The first trickles seep out around the mouths on him, down the curve of a breast into the valley of his solar plexus.
The King groans with pleasure. “Yesss, Arthur. You can feel me rooting in you. You know you were made to be mind. Now, be quickened with my seed.”
Arthur squeals a fluting, falling note as the cocks both thrust into him at once, harder and faster, grinding against his prostate from both sides and bumping his greedy cervix. “So deep,” he moans. “Please, it’s too much.”
“You will be filled by my seed. Gravid and heavy with my offspring.”
The King’s tentacle suckle at Arthur’s now-full, aching breasts, drawing the life-giving milk from the roots of them as if he were being made love to deep inside him. He arches, grasping frantically for anything in reach—the King’s robes, His hands, His tentacles—as an orgasm is forced up inside him, one hard rocking thrust after another. The King’s unbearable music clots his throat again so that he chokes on the pleasure as it wracks him.
The King shares with him the little pops of his ovaries, giving up their eggs. He can feel the gentle fellation of his fallopian tubes caressing them, coaxing them to further ripeness and ushering his eggs down toward his womb. Inescapable, now. He shudders, knowing his fate is sealed, to be bred by a god. To bear this magnificant monster’s offspring.
Music in all its rich, layered scents and colors swamps him with ecstasy when the King’s cocks begin to throb inside him. The pumps of that divine ejaculate, inspiration given form, burn inside him, burn up through his cunt, into his cervix and sear the inside of his womb with a glorious, blinding divine agony of fertility that feels like being born.
He gives birth to some of those songs as he’s bred, his voice rising and skirling through the halls like a siren. He feels the ears he finds, feels his voice slipping inside them to itself sear a haunting, inescapable path through their minds.
The King’s seed sniffs out his those eggs, surround and coating them, the tiny things nudging ruthless to penetrate him from every direction—surrounded, hopeless to escape. He writhes and moans at the sensation of being impregnated, even as he feels the King’s seed overcome and take a second egg.
He can hear the songs of each sperm. The creative force of each seed of life fills him to bursting with its music as it drives him to be fertilized with the Peacock King’s inspiration and give birth to it.
The King bundles Arthur up against his chest and carries him toward his chambers. Arthur orgasms again with an operatic note that shakes the crystal panes of the palace windows as he comes again, cocks still fucking into him with every step.
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